by Mark Warren
“My first priority,” he said, “is our safety.” He cleared his throat, seeming unfamiliar with the practice of using his voice at such a volume. “I don’t want any man taking unnecessary risks. We ride together, and we back each other. Now . . . who here is experienced as a tracker?”
With no answer forthcoming, the new sheriff, looking mildly confused, frowned at the faces before him.
“We’re all experienced, Johnny,” Virgil said finally. “Let’s get going.”
One-handedly Behan folded the telegram against his chest. “All right,” he announced, trying his damnedest to sound official. “Let’s get going.”
From Drew’s Station they tracked the highwaymen to the ranch of Len Redfield, a known consort of the Clantons and Curly Bill. Behan spoke to Redfield in a tone closer to apology than authority. The others in the posse sat mutely listening to the conversation, growing equally irritable at Redfield’s reticence and Behan’s lax manner of questioning.
With dawn breaking over the hills in the east, Wyatt walked his horse to the barn and inspected the stalls. He didn’t need to dismount to see that four of the horses inside were still damp from a hard ride. When he returned to his party to share this information, Morgan tapped him on the arm.
“You see that?” Morg whispered, pointing toward a copse of mesquite behind the barn. He spurred his horse that way, and Wyatt followed. After a few passes through the brush, Morgan drew his revolver, and yelled into the thicket. “You can get on out o’ there on your own or get shot out!”
A man rose with his hands raised high and made his way through the brush. With Morgan and Wyatt riding behind him, the frightened man moved toward the barn. When Redfield saw their approach, he visibly paled.
Stopping at the barn, Wyatt and Morgan dismounted and took the man inside amid the sharp tang of horse sweat and manure. The man turned to face them, but his eyes kept darting to the played-out horses in the stalls.
“Talk and talk fast,” Wyatt said, “startin’ with who you are.”
“King,” he answered and swallowed. “Lew King. Talk about what?”
Wyatt slapped him across the face, and King fell backward into a stall gate. The horse inside snorted and backed away. Wyatt stepped closer and leaned his face into King’s.
“Two men died on the Benson stage tonight.” Wyatt grabbed the man’s lapels. “Let’s start there.”
“Wyatt?” Behan called from the yard. Wyatt looked at Morg and nodded toward the barn entrance. Morgan walked off to intercept the sheriff.
Wyatt jerked King’s lapels, and the man dangled limply in his grip. “Give me names, or you’re gonna die in this horse shit.”
“I didn’t do nothin’,” the sniveling man insisted, his voice dry and hoarse.
Wyatt swatted King’s hat off his head, took a fistful of hair, and shoved the back of his head into the gate. The horse kicked wildly at the boards and nickered. When King volunteered nothing, Wyatt flung open the gate and pushed him into the stall with the panicked horse. In the grainy light of the barn, the frightened man’s eyes shone like bright coins.
“I didn’t shoot nobody—I swear it!”
King’s teary eyes fixed on the barn door. He could hear Behan’s voice getting louder as he argued with Morgan. Wyatt walked into the stall, and King raised his arms over his face.
“If I tell you, you got to protect me.”
Wyatt slapped him again, and the frightened man fell into the hay where he tried to squeeze himself into the corner of the stall. Wyatt drew his revolver and held it down by his leg. When he hooked his thumb over the hammer, it looked as though King’s terror would burst from his eyes. The horse stamped and snorted but kept its distance.
“It’s me you better worry about right now,” Wyatt said, his voice humming with malice.
King checked the door again, but all that could be seen was the silhouette of Morgan’s back. Behan had dropped the authority from his voice and was now arguing with reason. Wyatt grabbed a handful of King’s hair and jerked his prisoner toward the horse. Nickering nervously, the animal half turned and kicked, its hooves ringing on the stall boards.
“Damn it to hell,” King said finally. “It was Jim Crane, Harry Head, and Billy Leonard. I’m tellin’ you I didn’t shoot nobody!”
Wyatt pushed King ahead of him out of the stall just as Behan managed to slip around Morgan.
“Who’s this?” Behan demanded, but his eyes sharpened in recognition. Before the sheriff could say any more, Wyatt pushed his prisoner out the barn door, where Marsh Williams took hold of his arm.
“Jim Crane, Harry Head, and Bill Leonard are the men we’re after,” Wyatt reported. He jerked his head toward the stalls. “They used up these horses and picked up fresh mounts from Redfield.” He nodded outside, where King was being shackled. “He was part of it.”
“Billy Leonard is in business with Ike Clanton,” Williams said from the door. “All three of those men he named run with Curly Bill.” He jostled the man in his grip. “Don’t know this one though.”
Behan stood up straighter and turned from Wyatt. “I’ll question him myself. Alone.”
“I already did that,” Wyatt said, moving in front of Behan. The sheriff stumbled backward a step before catching himself. “We’re losing time here, Johnny. Morg and I’ll pick up the trail.” He nodded toward King. “You keep him away from Redfield. Don’t give ’em a chance to spin up the same story.” Wyatt mounted the chestnut and reined the mare out into the mesquite with Morgan following.
In the growing light, the two Earp brothers found fresh tracks heading north in the gulch behind Redfield’s house. Returning at a gallop, Wyatt spurred his horse toward Behan, who was in conference with King and Redfield. Behan faced Wyatt’s glare and screwed his neck up through his shirt collar.
“I’m taking King back to Tombstone,” the sheriff announced and lifted his hands out from his sides. “Well, we can’t haul him around the territory with us now, can we?” He cleared his throat as he faced his posse. “I want you boys to keep going after the others . . . and get word to me where I can meet you. I’ll join you when I can.”
Virgil stepped into the conversation. “You’ve had two prisoners escape out of your jail since you took office, Johnny.” He thrust a finger at King. “Keep this man under guard.”
Behan took a freshly filled canteen from Breakenridge and busied himself securing it to his saddle. “Once we get him to Tombstone,” the sheriff said, avoiding Virgil’s eyes, “he’s not going anywhere.”
“What about Redfield?” Virgil asked.
Behan shook his head. “He’s likely a victim in all this. Says his horses were stolen.” Behan’s hands fumbled with the tie-downs on his canteen.
Virgil scowled. “Guess he forgot to tell us that, Johnny.”
“Says he didn’t know,” Behan snapped as he mounted. “Get King mounted!” he called out to Breakenridge. “We’re heading back to Tombstone.” It was his first convincing command.
Wyatt sidled his horse next to Behan’s and waited for the sheriff to look him in the eye. “Which part do you figure all this to be, Johnny? The administratin’ or the enforcin’?”
Behan frowned and began stuffing his hands into his gloves. “I don’t know what you mean. And, frankly, I don’t—”
“I advised you to keep King and Redfield separate,” Wyatt reminded. “You told me as undersheriff I—”
“Look, Wyatt,” Behan interrupted, giving him a look of saintly patience. “I’ve already got an undersheriff.” And with that, he reined his horse around to head back down the same trail by which they had arrived. Breakenridge climbed into his saddle, took the reins of King’s horse, and followed.
Wyatt raised his chin to Williams. “Go with ’em, Marsh,” he said in a low monotone. “See he gets to the Tombstone jail and that the goddamn door gets locked.” Wyatt turned a stony face to the rest of the posse. “Let’s go find the rest of these sons of bitches.”
In the
course of the weeklong hunt through the mountains, Wyatt’s chestnut began to favor a foreleg. The other horses were playing out fast, too. Finding no sympathy from the outlying ranchers, who benefited from the rampant cattle rustling along the border, the lawmen were not offered replacement mounts—neither for rent nor sale. The tracks showed the fugitives had secured fresh mounts all along the trail. With his horse lame, Wyatt had no choice but to walk the mare some twenty miles back to Tombstone on foot, while the others pushed on.
Six days later Virgil and Morgan returned to town with the posse. Wyatt stepped out of the post office, raising a hand against the afternoon sun, and waited for his brothers to dismount. Virgil’s big jaw was clamped tight as a steel trap, and Morgan’s face was drawn, his eyes empty, as though he hadn’t slept in days.
“We got nothin’,” the younger Earp said, “no news at all . . . ’cept I’m bone tired.”
Virgil climbed stiffly up to the boardwalk and began pulling off his trail gloves. He cut his eyes to Wyatt, but he was too angry to talk.
“You seen Behan yet?” Wyatt said.
Virgil clamped the fingertip of a glove in his teeth and shook his head.
“King’s gone,” Wyatt informed him. “Slipped out the back door of the jail, free as you please.”
Virgil stood stock-still and stared into Wyatt’s eyes. His face reddened beneath the weathered tan he had acquired on the manhunt.
“We ride around this whole Godforsaken country, and our new sheriff can’t lock a goddamn door on a man.” Turning his fierce gaze on the county offices across the street, he bunched his gloves into one hand and whipped them against his pant leg.
“Here’s the rest of it,” Wyatt went on, and Virgil turned around to hear it. “Behan ain’t payin’ us. Says Wells, Fargo needs to pick up Morg’s tab . . . and the federal marshal, yours.”
The ill humor in Morgan’s face sharpened his eyes. “Got a answer for just about everything, don’t he? But what about you, Wyatt? Since when’s an undersheriff not get compensation?”
Wyatt turned his head to glare at the county offices. “I ain’t the undersheriff.”
Virgil and Morgan stared at Wyatt for the time it took an ore wagon to rumble down Fremont Street. “Sonovabitch must’a forgot his promise,” Virgil grumbled. “Hell-fire . . . Dake and Wells, Fargo didn’t ask us to do nothin’. Why should they pay?”
Morgan laughed. “Christ! Talkin’ to Behan’s like tryin’ to hold on to the wind.”
Virgil spat into the street. “How’s the chestnut, Wyatt?”
“Still swole-up,” Wyatt said. “Was a hell of a walk back, and she’s paying for it.”
“Least somebody’s payin’,” Morgan said, something of the usual twinkle back in his eye.
After a ride south of town to check on one of their mines, Wyatt and Virgil stabled their horses at the O.K. Corral and walked out the back entrance to Fremont Street. Because neither brother was in a hurry to return to his home, they strolled under the awning at Bauer’s Meat Market. There they stood in the soft violet haze of twilight and lit cigars. Virgil chuckled and tilted his head to the store behind them.
“Prob’ly more stolen beef runnin’ through here than there are lies passin’ through Johnny Behan’s smilin’ teeth.”
Wyatt said nothing. He faced northwest, where the Rincons and the Santa Catalinas stretched in a blue haze out on the horizon. He had covered much of those ranges during the search for the men who had attacked the Benson stage, and now these mountains—like all the vast desert around them—had come to symbolize for him the futility of being a lawman in a sprawling territory where the general populace of ranchers supported the law breakers.
Virgil coughed up another laugh from his chest. “Morg says you eat enough of Bauer’s beef, you might start speaking Mexican.”
Wyatt drew on his cigar and listened to the evening sounds gather around them. Now there was a purple tint to the desert—not something you could point at . . . more like an infusion spreading from the heat rising off the land. The aroma of beans, peppers, and onions wafted from the Mexican quarter, reminding Wyatt of the bare kitchen he’d be going home to. He considered, once he had talked to Virgil, going straight to the Oriental to his faro table. He could get something to eat at the bar.
“I got something I want to talk over with you,” Wyatt said, keeping his eyes on the mountains.
Virgil leaned a shoulder into an awning post and waited as Wyatt sorted out his words. A Mexican girl led a burro and cart from the business district toward the arroyo that opened up beyond the Aztec House. Wyatt had seen her in the neighborhood going door to door, quietly offering her produce of tomatoes, peppers, and herbs. When the girl waved, both Wyatt and Virgil nodded.
“McMaster tells me Ike Clanton is the weak link in the Cowboy crowd,” Wyatt began.
Virgil grunted. “Ike’d be the weak link in a line of ducks walking across Arizona.”
“Seems he’s got his eye on a ranch belongin’ to one o’ the stage robbers—Bill Leonard.” Wyatt checked the burn on his cigar. “I’m considerin’ makin’ Ike a proposition.”
Wyatt waited for a reaction from Virgil, but he got none.
“Wells, Fargo is offerin’ a reward for Leonard, Head, and Crane. It’s a lot of money. I figure it’s enough that Clanton would guide us to ’em.”
Virgil narrowed his eyes at Wyatt. “You think he’d do that?”
Wyatt cocked his head in a barely perceptible shrug. “Ike keeps the reward. Leonard’s ranch is up for grabs. I make the arrests. Come time I run for sheriff in a regular election, I figure that’ll give me a leg up.”
Virgil was quiet for so long, Wyatt already knew his opinion of the transaction.
“He can’t afford to let it go bad,” Wyatt explained. “If word got out, he wouldn’t last a week among his San Simon crowd.”
Virge nodded at that part of the idea. Then he narrowed his eyes and slowly rotated the cigar in his lips.
“Might be you can’t afford to let it go bad, too. If people think you’re making deals with the likes of Ike Clanton, how’s that gonna help you win the sheriff’s post?”
Wyatt waved the question away with his hand, leaving a trail of smoke that hung in the air. “Using informants is part of the work, Virge. You know that. I got a man ridin’ with Brocius working for me right now.” He turned to meet Virgil’s eyes. “The short, feisty one with the bowlegs—McMaster.”
Virgil’s breathing checked as he stared at his brother. “How the hell do you pay for that?”
Wyatt shook his head. “Not me. Wells, Fargo.”
Virge frowned out into the night for a time. Wyatt waited for his brother to come around.
“What if Ike don’t accept it?”
“Then he don’t,” Wyatt said simply.
Virgil remained still for a time. In the fading light the mountains had darkened to a solid flat backdrop. They were like a background prop used in a theatrical production, something snipped from roofing tin and painted black.
“You’re pretty set on doin’ this?” Virgil pushed.
“I’m set on doin’ somethin’. This seems good as anything.”
“Well,” Virgil said and blew a thin stream of cigar smoke. “You’d better keep this tight.” He looked at Wyatt. “If Clanton’s old man finds out, he’ll kill Ike himself.” Then Virgil laughed at his own words. “Maybe this idea does hold some possibilities.” He stepped down into the street and looked up at the night sky. “Lotta stars down here in Arizona. One of the Mex in our neighborhood told me it’s ’cause of all the silver in the ground.”
“Lot o’ stars in Kansas, too, Virge,” Wyatt reminded him.
Virgil laughed deep in his chest. “Well, hell, Wyatt, you think we ought’a go back and dig for silver there?”
Wyatt flicked ashes into the street. “I think we’re in it up to our ankles right here.”
Virgil turned his attention back to the broad desert plain that opened up beyond the ar
royo. “Or our necks,” he said quietly.
CHAPTER 11
Late spring, summer 1881: Tombstone, A. T.
When the Kinnear stage rolled to a stop in front of the Wells, Fargo office, Marsh Williams clamped a cigar in his teeth, picked up his ledger, and stepped outside. Seated at Williams’s desk, Wyatt finished writing the letter to his parents in California—explaining why Warren was coming back to live with them. The message grew wordier than he had intended, but he felt the need to convince his father to steer Warren into a line of business that would not involve a badge. Or a gun.
Williams came back inside, grinning broadly around his cigar. “Hey, Wyatt, take a look at this, would you?”
The spring day had warmed up like mid-summer. Outside, Johnny Behan was helping a young woman step down from the coach. He was dressed in a new suit and hat—both the color of sand—and, when he turned, Wyatt saw that his badge, which he usually wore on his vest, was pinned to the front of his coat.
“You ever see a woman like that?” Williams muttered into the windowglass. “She looks good enough to spread on a biscuit and eat.”
Wyatt admired the hourglass shape of her body and watched her laugh at something Behan said. The melodic sound of her voice drifted into the office, taking Wyatt to a place he did not know still existed inside him.
“Nobody in Tombstone can touch that,” Williams said, and then he snorted. “ ’Cept maybe Johnny.”
When Behan playfully reached for the woman’s hat, she turned her head away with a minimal effort, and the movement reminded Wyatt of a mother tolerating mischief from her child. Behan laughed, but the woman busied herself dusting her travel skirt with modest strokes of her hand.
“Word is,” Williams said, “she’s come from San Francisco to marry our august sheriff.” Wyatt gave the Wells, Fargo agent a look. Williams shrugged. “If anyone could tame ol’ hound-dog Johnny,” Marsh said, nodding at the woman in the street, “be somebody like that.”
They watched through the window as Behan paid two boys to gather the luggage lined up on the boardwalk. The young woman lifted her arms and tied back her hair with a ribbon beneath the brim of her hat. Her hair was black as the wing of a raven.
